


Edges and Angles

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's supposed to fucking know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edges and Angles

**Author's Note:**

> sequel to [A Happy Captain](http://archiveofourown.org/works/60987) Bones and Jim have their say.

Bones:

He's not sorry. He's really not. Every night, Len rolls over, reaching for someone who's not there. He lies there for a moment, hand flat against the cool mattress and breathes out.

"I'm not," he says, stubborn, and rolls over again. When he closes his eyes, he sees the aliens and Jim hanging from the manacles, body broken and bleeding. Sees that poor girl, shaking and terrified, bending over him. Sees the wounds disappear from Jim's body and reappear, however briefly, on her own. Sees the exhaustion settle into place behind her eyes, sinking into her body and sapping its strength, as she sinks to the floor.

He remembers the smooth cool pressure of the hypo in his hand, sees the horror in Jim's eyes as the aliens laid out the choice. Sending his lover to certain death or his best friend to certain insanity.

Len's not sorry for the choice he made. Jim's choice was no choice at all. Sex, love, whatever it is they've got going, he wasn't going to let Jim shoulder that responsibility. Send him. Send Spock. Either way, Jim would've lived the rest of his life with it.

He couldn't do that. Couldn't let either one of them be responsible.

All the while, he feels the bite of the manacles into his own flesh. Feels the burning, cutting pain as the aliens inflict horror after horror on him.

He'll never forget that pain, even if it pales in comparison to what he's feeling now. He's not sorry about his choice. Facing the same situation, he'd do the same damn thing. He'd dose them, make the choice himself, he'd fight to keep Gem from sacrificing herself to save him. She survived, of course, but only she and Len know just how close a thing it was. He knows he was circling the drain. He remembers the feeling of her mind reaching down to pull him back, of her powers sweeping through his body, pushing it to heal and recover.

He remembers the faint echoes of agony as she'd taken those wounds into herself.

That he'd change. She deserves better than that and, wherever she is, he hopes to God those monsters are giving her that. They'd better be. She damn well earned it.

They all have.

He's not sorry about his choice. He's not. Knew when he did it what Jim's reaction would be. Whether they lived five more minutes or fifty more years it would change nothing. Jim would be _pissed_.

Just like he is.

Len knew this was coming. Jim's pissed at him. He'd rather that than the alternative. Jim mourning his death and blaming himself with every breath for sending him to it.

He can live with it. He can.

He just doesn't want to.

Jim:

He hears Bones breathing when he sleeps. Or when he doesn't sleep. When he lies there in the night, he hears that choked, dry rattle of oxygen scraping through brutalized lungs. The sound creeps into the corners, curling around the edges of his thoughts, reminding him with every passing second.

Bones almost died. Bones had pressed a hypo to his neck, let him slump to the bed of their cell, and calmly walked into their captors hands. He'd willingly let them drag him off, chain him up, and rip into his flesh, tearing him apart for their own purposes. All to test some alien race's merit.

Rage tears its way from Jim and he lashes out. Not for the first time, the padds by his bed scatter to the floor. He hears the snap and pop of shattered screens (so much for indestructible) and ignores it. He sits up and looks at his hands. They're shaking.

He wants to scream, rage, to beat the living fuck out of something. He can't. He wants to go to the gym and spar, but he can't do that either. He's not sure he's got the control to stop. Not to hurt somebody. The urge is there beneath the skin just ready to break free and strike out. He _wants it_. He wants to feel the give of flesh beneath his palms. He wants to hear someone grunt with pain. He wants someone else to feel this.

Jim wants to turn the ship around, head back for Minara II (Even though he knows it's so much space dust by now. Destroyed by the supernova that had been threatening the system) and find those bastards. Beat them both bloody and black for what they did to Gem. To him. To _Bones_.

_"No."_

The memory of Bones whispering the word, his hand bruised, bloody, and so very weak as it raised to ward Gem off. Refusing to let her heal him. Sacrifice herself. Insisting, however weakly, however faintly, that she survive. Refusing to let someone else sacrifice themselves for him.

_"No, Jim, I can't. I **can't**."_

Jim closes his eyes, throwing back the sheets, feeling the cool air in contrast to the fury burning him up. The memory of Bones lying there with injuries so severe, so horrible, that he'd been unrecognizable twists his stomach with nausea anew.

Not for the first time, he gets up and runs for the bathroom, retching lunch and dinner, his body heaving with it until his ribs ache with it.

"Fuck," he breathes. He makes it to the sink, washing his face, his hands, until the water's so hot his skin turns red. He yanks his hands away before the water scalds, but only just, turning it off with a muttered command that he has to repeat twice to let the computer understand it.

He slumps to the floor, head against the wall, one leg stretched out before him, the other one pulled tight against his chest. He closes his eyes.

_"He misses you."_

Uhura's parting shot lingers in his mind and Jim snorts a laugh. Bones misses him. Bones has no idea. It's --

Jim swallows hard.

It's like Bones died.

He can't --

Jim can't do it. He can't. He just _can't_.

_"What the fuck did you think you were doing, Doctor?"_ his own voice surfaces, fury lacing every word, and it's easy to remember that moment in the transporter room. Every eye riveted on him. So furious he couldn't even care. _"No one makes that call but me. Are we clear? **No one**."_

Guilt twists Jim's stomach, a sharp digging pain that pierces to the core, and he opens his eyes.

No one. Except, maybe, possibly, deep down he's just a little relieved. That he didn't have to. That Bones did it for him. That he didn't have to choose between his best friend and his --

Jim sighs.

His best friend and his other half.

Jim presses his palms against his eyes, pressing against the bite of tears and frustration.

Uhura's right. He would've gone instead. He would have found a way. He would have.

But there's a part of him that thinks the aliens wouldn't have let him. Would have forced the choice.

And that's the part that's relieved.

Jim groans.

How's he supposed to look any of them in the eye knowing that? Maybe it's not Bones that died, but something did. Something between them _died_ and Jim doesn't know how to fix it.

And that's it. He's the captain. He's the one in charge. He has to be the one to fix things. He's the one they turn to.

He's supposed to fucking know what to do.

Jim kicks out at the door. It obediently slides open before he makes contact. His momentum sends him into an inelegant sprawl that leaves him twisted and aching on the floor.

He swears, low and angry, and thumps a fist against the floor.

And then he gets up.

Them:

The door retracts with a soft whoosh of compressed air. Bones looks at him with a confused, but very alert gaze.

Jim's not the only one who hasn't been sleeping.

"Jim?"

"I don't know how to fix this," he confesses, angry at how small his voice sounds. "I tried, but I don't."

Bones snorts. "What, and I do?" He shakes his head. "Spent every second since we got back trying to figure it out, and fuck if I know." He reaches out, fingers falling short of Jim's skin. "I don't."

Jim catches hold before Bones can pull it away. The hand in his is warm, strong, _alive_ and he swallows hard. "Bones..."

"Goddamn it, Jim," Bones growls. He yanks, pulling Jim off his feet, and they both stumble backward. "Who gives a flying fuck? Get your ass in here and let me get some goddamn sleep. We'll fix it later."

Jim wants to argue, he does, he knows nothing's ever that simple.

He's spent half his life in pieces don't quite fit, he knows it's almost impossible to put things back to rights, and he knows he should say something about it. He doesn't. Instead, he lets Bones push him toward the bed and shove him beneath the covers, opening his arms when Bones slides in bed to join him.

It isn't that easy to fix, it isn't, but right now he doesn't care. If Bones wants to pretend, then Jim's all for it. He closes his eyes and lets the sound of Bones breathing, slow, relaxed, and even, lull him to sleep.


End file.
